


The Colour Of Desire

by Enjoloras



Series: Hold My Hand As I'm Lowered [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Basically it's lowkey smut from the same universe as Hold My Hand As I'm Lowered., Canon Era, M/M, Trans Enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-23 01:31:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11392530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enjoloras/pseuds/Enjoloras
Summary: He would stop, he told himself, before it went too far. He could not, after all, let himself be undone like this; no, not at all, and definitely not in an alleyway, pushed up against the wall of café Musain. He would enjoy this fleeting taste of passion until it became too risky, and then put an end to it. There was no harm in a kiss; no mighty dynasties had been felled with lips. At least, not that he could recall.He would stop - of course he would stop - before it went too far, before, oh, god, he could not even finish that thought. He tilted his head to the side almost instinctively as Grantaire's lips made a path down his neck, stubble scratching against his throat. Hands slipped down to his lower back, then further, and Enjolras felt a burning, needy warmth spreading through his body.“Are you real,” Grantaire whispered, “Or some vapour brought about by the wine?”“I'm real,” Enjolras said, a shiver running down his spine as Grantaire's breath tickled his neck.(A small snippet from the same universe as my fic 'Hold My Hand As I'm Lowered'; Enjolras and Grantaire's first time. Not exactly tender or romantic, but the start of a genuine love affair...)





	The Colour Of Desire

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING for the fact Grantaire initially kisses him without consent. It's very heat of the moment, so forgive that - I'm not normally a fan of 'surprise kisses' but there we are.

“He was a good man!”

Grantaire let out an obnoxious laugh as they stepped out of the back of the Musain and into the warm night air.

“Rousseau abandoned his children! He turned them out into the gutter as though they were of little more consequence to him than the contents of his chamberpot! How can you idolise such a man so fervently?" 

Enjolras flushed, indignant, feeling his cheeks redden with anger. The conversation had begun towards the end of their usual meeting after Enjolras had dared to mention Rousseau's name in passing. The reference had apparently spurred Grantaire's argumentative nature, causing him to rise up out of his stupor to comment, and before long they had been at verbal blows with one another.

Enjolras and Grantaire had been the last of the group to leave, so absorbed in their debate that they had barely noticed it growing dark around them as the candles began to gutter out and surrender to shadows. Their friends had left them to it, not wanting to involve themselves; Enjolras could not blame them, he and Grantaire's arguments could be notoriously lengthy and vicious. 

“He had good cause to do what he did.” Enjolras said defensively, “Can you deny that his works have been of great importance?” he pressed, “And in turn, can you therefore deny the necessity of his sacrifice?”

“Sacrifice! Ha!” Grantaire threw up his hands, “The cheek of even implying he found it difficult! And yes, Enjolras, I can deny it. I am proud to deny such a thing. What manner of father abandons his children? One not fit to wear the title, for certain. The word 'father' should not even touch such heartlessness, and I speak as a man with a monster for a sire."

Enjolras puffed up his chest, lifting his chin, “He did what he needed for the sake of greater things. For the sake of the _nation_.”

Grantaire looked at him almost sadly then, shaking his head, “You are cold marble, Enjolras.” he said, “I pray you never father any children. May Aphrodite strike you with infertility, should you ever deign to lower yourself to such mortal pleasures." 

At this, Enjolras scoffed, “A likely thing.” he said, “Such unproductive pastimes are of little interest to me.”

“Unproductive!” Grantaire laughed, “Is your whole life dedicated to naught but productivity? You are too industrious for your own good, Enjolras. You do your humanity a great disservice in denying it variety. And I do not speak wholly about carnal pleasures – I speak on all 'unproductive pastimes' you turn your nose up at. You have no hobbies that I know of, beyond what your group does here. I have never seen you relax, or dare to try a sip of wine. You do not care for music and you do not notice the spring. You lack the ability to taste all of life's flavours. In short, you are no fun.”

Enjolras clenched his hands into fists at his side. The words cut him to the quick; it was not the first time he had been accused of heartlessness. His icy demeanour froze many of those who tried to get past it. He longed to be able to tell him the truth, if only to prove him wrong – that his celibacy, his sobriety, his supposed disinterest in outside hobbies was not born of choice, but of bitter necessity.

He had too much to hide to allow himself any vices; one cup of wine could have his voice slipping, one lover with a loose tongue could tear his life asunder.

They were dangerously close now, mere inches apart as they stood in the thin alleyway that led from the rear of the café out onto the cobbled street.

“And what about you?” Enjolras retorted, determined not to let Grantaire see he had struck a nerve, “You _over_ indulge in such things! There is a point where those things surpass entertainment and fall into ruin. You are nothing but a...a wretched hedonist!”

Grantaire grinned at the accusation, apparently allowing him to continue. It seemed almost as though he were rather enjoying their fight. Enjolras did not wish to know how red his face had become; he imagined he made quite an amusing picture. _Do I make fine sport?_ He thought angrily.

“Your drinking makes you say brutish things and I have been told you frequent all manner of unsavoury establishments,” Enjolras accused, unable to ignore the keen way Grantaire was looking at him. Was he watching his lips as he spoke? No, of course not – a fanciful, terrible creation of his mind.

“And as for Aphrodite - _Ha!_ How many nameless children have you left running around the slums of Paris?”

This seemed to shake Grantaire out of whatever reverie he was in. He looked for a moment as though Enjolras had slapped him.

“None as I of yet know.” he said fiercely, “And were any unfortunate girl to come to me and proclaim that I had left her in the family way, I would do whatever I could do support the child financially. I am, for once it seems, a better man than your beloved Rousseau. Though I am sure my having any moral decency at all comes of great surprise to you, seeing as you have unfairly branded me a heartless rake!”

They stared at each other following his words, their eyes meeting with a strange intensity that Enjolras could almost feel weighing heavy in the air around them. And then, unexpectedly, Grantaire's mouth was on his.

It took a moment for Enjolras to even register what was happening, so utterly impossible was the idea that Grantaire might kiss him. For a heartbeat he thought that perhaps he had tripped on the cobbles, and in falling forwards his lips had come clumsily into contact with his.

But no, he could not deny it was a kiss – it was rough and desperate and tasted of sour wine, but a kiss all the same. It set alight a strange sensation in his chest that seemed to find it's way to his stomach and then lower still.

_Oh._

Suddenly regaining his senses, Enjolras threw his hands against his shoulders and shoved him away abruptly. Grantaire stumbled back, his eyes wide as as though he himself was as stunned by his actions as Enjolras was.

The look of shock on his face quickly gave way to shame, and he backed away like a wounded animal, “I---forgive me,” he said, voice hoarse, “I should not have...I did not...I...”

Enjolras gaped at him, still trying to comprehend what had happened.

Grantaire had kissed him. Grantaire, who seemed to take pleasure in bemoaning his ideals and belittling his idols.

He had kissed him, and what was more, privately, shamefully, Enjolras had liked it.

Grantaire was now turning away as though to flee the scene, but Enjolras was struck with the urge to stop him leaving. He reached forwards, catching the sleeve of his coat.

“Wait,” he said, not at all sure what he was planning on doing if he did. 

Grantaire looked back at him, his eyes full of uncertainty, and Enjolras felt his wits abandon him. Without even a moment of thought he seized the collar of his shirt and pulled Grantaire back to him, his mouth finding his in a frantic reunion.

Grantaire was frozen for a moment, but then to Enjolras' relief he melted into it, parting Enjolras' lips with his tongue. Beneath the wine and smoke he tasted sweet, like aniseed and fruit tarts.

Enjolras felt his back hit the wall of the cafe, his hands moving against his will, fingers knotting greedily in Grantaire's hair, unseating the cap he was wearing. The wall behind him was damp from the rain; he felt it soak into the back of his coat, through the lining, through his shirt and down to his skin, but could not bring himself to care.

All of Paris had disappeared around them, and he could think of nothing else but the softness of Grantaire's lips and the smell of his cologne.

He would stop, he told himself, before it went too far. He could not, after all, let himself be undone like this; no, not at all, and definitely not in an alleyway, pushed up against the wall of café Musain. He would enjoy this fleeting taste of passion until it became too risky and then put an end to it. There was no harm in a kiss; no mighty dynasties had been felled by lips. At least, not that he could recall - he would have to check with Combeferre, he knew his histories better than Enjolras did. 

He would stop - of course he would stop - before it went too far, before, oh, _god,_ he could not even finish that thought. He tilted his head to the side almost instinctively as Grantaire's lips made a path down his neck, stubble scratching against his throat. Hands slipped down to his lower back, then further, and Enjolras felt a burning, needy warmth spreading through his body.

“Are you real,” Grantaire whispered, “Or some vapour brought about by the wine?”

“I'm real,” Enjolras said, a shiver running down his spine as Grantaire's breath tickled his neck.

He would stop, he told himself, but his body was betraying him. He was arching into him like a cat, and the closer Grantaire pressed against him the more unbearable the thought of disentangling himself became.

He inhaled sharply, feeling Grantaire's erection against his thigh through his trousers, and though he knew that ought to be the signal for him to put a stop to their tryst it only worsened the ache of longing that was now spreading between his legs.

Damn this, he thought. And damn Grantaire, surely sent by some cruel god to tempt him into ruin.

And then, quite suddenly, one of Grantaire's hands ventured daringly from behind and slipped down into the front of his breeches. Panic bolted through him, sharp enough to shake him back to reality, and the reverie was abruptly ended.

“Grantaire, no, wait----!”

It was too late though. Their eyes met, Grantaire's eyebrows raised as he withdrew his hand, and Enjolras could see it in his face that he had found – or rather, failed to find – what was unusual about his anatomy.

“Oh,” he said, with such an underwhelming lack of alarm that Enjolras thought he might faint. He looked as though he were carefully processing how to react to his discovery.

“That's a surprise.”

“I am a man.” Enjolras said feebly, before he could suggest otherwise. He felt pathetic to hear how desperate the statement came out.

“I am a man.” he said again, more slowly, trying to feign some courage, “I know it, more so than anything else. I am a man, though my anatomy may not be as conventional as most.”

Grantaire seemed to digest this information, and then nodded once, “Very well.” he said. And then as though nothing were amiss, his lips were at his throat again.

“You know yourself far better than anybody else. I have known others like you in my travels - and I can work well enough with this all the same. If you permit it, of course?” he said, his fingers resting on the waistband of Enjolras' trousers as though awaiting orders.

Enjolras could not believe it – for a moment he was sure there had been some kind of misunderstanding. Why was Grantaire not scandalised?

It was this blasé reaction that sealed Enjolras' fate. All at once any hesitation he had felt abandoned him. Grantaire didn't care. He knew, and he didn't care. _I have known others like you in my travels._ He understood, and oh, hell below, it made Enjolras want him even more. What was the use fighting against what he wanted when the only reason he had done so to begin with was no longer an issue?

“Yes,” he said breathlessly, “Yes, I do,”

His hand slipped back down into his trousers, and oh, when he touched him it was all Enjolras could do not to whimper. Of course Grantaire should have such devilish, clever fingers; he was an artist after all. Enjolras would never question that fact ever again. 

He rubbed his thumb against him, teasing, testing, and Enjolras surrendered completely. He was at his mercy. Desire had made him it's hostage and dignity had taken her leave. Grantaire could have done whatever he liked with him and Enjolras would have readily complied.

Grantaire seemed to notice this – whether it was the look on his face or the subtle way he spread his legs further apart, Enjolras did not know, but it elicited a smirk.

“May I...?” he asked. Enjolras could only nod and then gasp as he gently pushed a finger into him, curling it in such a way that his head felt light. He worked him for a few moments, adding a second digit. Enjolras braced himself against the wall, feeling his boots losing their grip on the wet cobbles.

Grantaire was breathing heavily now, and suddenly Enjolras became aware once again of his arousal, pressing insistently against his leg. His body responded with a desperate throb.

“Please,” he urged, and nudged his erection with one knee as though to make his point.

That was all the confirmation Grantaire needed to remove his fingers and start struggling with his trousers, Enjolras helping him get the flap at the front open before pushing his own down to his ankles. There was very little ceremony or fanfare to what happened next; they kissed again, feverishly and like they meant to devour each other, and then Grantaire guided himself inside of him. There was a brief moment of discomfort, followed by a fullness that made the slight sting suddenly feel heavenly. His fingers tightened around the collar of Grantaire's shirt, his breath coming quickly as he anchored himself through the new feeling.

He felt Grantaire's hand against his cheek suddenly.

“Are you hurt---?”

“No. Don't stop.”

God, why had he resisted this? It was a true feat to have quelled his curiosity for so long, forced to be in Grantaire's presence so often as he was. He remembered one evening when he'd had the misfortune of seeing Grantaire lick the red wine from his lips, how he'd loathed him for his unwittingly alluring display. He had been particularly harsh wish him that meeting, wanting to dispel him from the café so as to banish temptation along with him. It had been cruel and wrong of him, and he had known it.

Well, here they were now, and curiosity could have it's way with him.

He threw his head back as Grantaire lifted him slightly, steadying him against the wall to deepen his thrusts. He let a moan and a sigh leave his lips, and oh, it was divine. He had already been halfway to wild when Grantaire had entered him; now any trace of the stoic mask he wore in the Musain was gone. This was bliss, he thought, as the pace quickened and rapture edged closer and closer; bliss and certain doom.

It was a disastrous idea; though the streets were empty at this late hour, it was not impossible that they might be discovered. What would he say should someone they knew see them like this? He was too far gone to stop now.

He moved against Grantaire, savouring it all, relishing in the feeling that was building force inside of him. It didn't take long for it to spill out; a couple of hard thrusts and he was gone, lost in a flood of heat and ecstasy that had him arching against Grantaire's chest as he reached the crest, curving instinctively into it.

He heard the cry that escaped his lips, so light and breathless that it sounded foreign to his ears, and gripped Grantaire's shoulders with hard urgency as he rode it out.

When it had passed through him he opened his eyes, legs feeling as though they could barely support his weight. The haze of his vision seemed to clear, and he saw the look on Grantaire's face; brow furrowed, teeth grit as though in pain, though the way his eyes were closed served to assure Enjolras it was pleasure he was feeling. He felt Grantaire's fingers dig into his hips, so hard that he was sure there would be bruises to testify to it tomorrow, and then, with a muttered curse, he buried his face against Enjolras' neck and let out a muffled groan as his release shuddered through him. A few more slow, drawn out thrusts followed, and then it was over.

They remained there for a while, panting against each other, the sweat sticking their clothes to their bodies. Their desire now sated, Enjolras felt uncertainty creeping back into him. He had just done something quite unlike himself, and could not quite fathom it; how had he been so weak? Where had his resolve gone? 

Then Grantaire let out a bitter laugh, “I feel as though I have desecrated a church.” he said, and the words made Enjolras' stomach feel sick.

“You regret it?” he said quietly. He felt Grantaire withdraw from him awkwardly and step back. He began buttoning up the front of his trousers, not meeting his gaze. He did not respond.

Enjolras, suddenly feeling rather ashamed and exposed, pulled his own back up and fumbled to close them. Something warm was running down the inside of his thigh; his face turned red with embarrassment.

“Grantaire?”

Grantaire turned away from him, raking his nails through his dark curls almost frantically, “Forgive me.” he said, “I should not have...it was brutish of me...”

“I permitted it.” Enjolras argued, scowling, “I wanted it.”

“I ought not to have...” Grantaire trailed off, gesturing vaguely at him, “I should have been more careful. I usually have more warning...”

Enjolras flushed, realising what he meant.

“That was not of great concern in the heat of the moment.” he offered quietly, “I forgive you that.”

“I should not have even touched you in the first place.” Grantaire said, “I've sullied your chaste reputation.”

“My reputation is only sullied if word of this gets out.” Enjolras reasoned, “And I shall not tell if you don't.”

Grantaire looked at him as though he had lost his mind.

“You had never done that.” he said.

“No,” Enjolras confirmed.

“Then I ought to have at least invited you to my lodgings.” Grantaire said quietly, “They are barely a minutes walk from here. Instead I deflowered you against the wall of the café like you were some grisette I had met at a wineshop. It was ungallant of me.”

“Ungallant?” Enjolras almost laughed, “Do not worry about the manner of it. I enjoyed it all the same.”

Grantaire didn't seem to know what to say – a rarity, Enjolras thought. He straightened the cap on his head, adjusting the lapels of his coat as though to erase any evidence of their rendezvous.

“What now, then?” he said.

Enjolras wasn't sure. He stood up a little taller, his legs still feeling as shaky as a newborn lamb's.

“I don't know,” he admitted, “I suppose we go our separate ways. It is late. I am expected home.”

Grantaire swallowed hard, “Very well.” he said, and then dug into his coat pocket for something.

When he held out his hand and offered a few coins to him, Enjolras had a mind to slap him for the implication. He could not believe what he was seeing.

The outrage must have shown in his expression, because Grantaire was quick to explain, “No---not---I mean. Use this and visit the apothecary. They sell a tea there that can assure...” he cleared his throat, “You understand?”

“Ah,” Enjolras said, cheeks pink, “I have the money. You know that.”

“It is my responsibility.” Grantaire insisted, “Let me.”

Enjolras pursed his lips, taking the money reluctantly. He would let him buy the tea, if it would ease his troubled conscience. Enjolras would find a way of slipping the money back to him at a later date.

“I will see you at the next meeting, then?” he said stiffly, pocketing the money.

“Of course.” Grantaire said, and there was something in his eyes now that was unbearably sad, “I am always there, aren't I?”

Enjolras nodded, secretly pleased that this had not changed that.

“Goodnight then, Grantaire.”

“Goodnight.”

 

* * *

 

 

Enjolras made it back to his and Combeferre's shared lodgings before dawn, amazed that his legs had taken him that far without giving way.

The house was dark, but the smell of candle smoke was still lingering in the air, suggesting that Combeferre had only just retired to bed. He was probably waiting up for him, he realised shamefully. He would have to formulate a clever excuse for his absence come the morning; he would simply say he stayed on at the Musain to work and had fallen asleep there. That would suffice, if he kept it vague.

He crept into his bedroom, stripping down to nothing but the bindings on his chest. As he did he caught an unwelcome sight of himself in the mirror; his hair was in disarray, and his neck was red from Grantaire's stubble, marked by eager kisses. He would have a job hiding that from Combeferre too, he thought. It would be a few days of uncomfortably tight cravats for him.

He wiped between his legs with a damp cloth, feeling almost humiliated as he did so, and then shed his bindings and crawled into bed.

Closing his eyes, Enjolras wondered how it might be when he and Grantaire saw each other at the next meeting. The dynamic between them had been changed forever. Having made love once then no matter what the next meeting brought they would be former lovers for the rest of their days. It would always have happened between them; there was no way to undo it. Enjolras found he would not even if he could. He could still smell him on his skin, and it was oddly comforting. He could almost imagine that Grantaire was in bed beside him, warm and sleepy.

He sighed deeply, letting himself recall the gentle way Grantaire had cupped his cheek. It was not only lust that had driven him, he was sure. There had been tenderness there too, and, Enjolras had to confess, he fancied he felt some himself also.

Still, he would not let himself indulge again. No. Absolutely not. It had been a mere trial, he vowed. Curiosity did not need to be assuaged twice. He would stay well away from Grantaire from now on.

 

Two days later he was at his door.

 


End file.
